Shoot the Moon
by columbiachica
Summary: One encounter, two points of view. Set in early S3. Literati.
1. Part One: The Bridge

Shoot the Moon by columbiachica (kat2005)  
  
A/N: The title is from the incredible Norah Jones song of the same name. If you haven't already heard her stuff, I highly recommend it.  
  
You're smoking. I thought you'd quit, but I guess you're back at it. You sit there on a park bench in the middle of town and puff, slowly, with an almost dignified manner. It looks like it took practice. I wonder what got you started.  
  
There's something about you in Stars Hollow. It's such a strange juxtaposition to see you sitting in the flawless, pristine park, smoking a cigarette. My mouth quirks up at the corner to think of you throwing the butt in Taylor's prized bushes. You're staring off into the distance, at the perfect ellipsis of the streetlight on the ground in front of you. It seems you're thinking, hard.  
  
Suddenly, you look up. Your eyes pierce mine, and I know that you knew I was there all along. I gaze right back, trying to keep my eyes steady while my stomach flutters and dances. I force my mouth to remain in a half- smile as my legs turn to pasta beneath me. I make my hands stay still, resisting the urge to fidget as you stare at me. Then I gather the courage to walk forward.  
  
When I sit on the bench next to you, you say nothing. You calmly stub out the cigarette and flick it right into Taylor's bush. I feel the giggle rising and stuff it down my throat. Stretching my legs out, I imitate your relaxed stance. My hand dips dangerously close to yours, and I narrowly quell the impulse to clasp my hand in yours.  
  
"Have fun?" you finally say, not looking at me.  
  
"Not really," I say honestly. All day I'd been telling everyone what a great time it was. Deep down, I was miserable, missing my mom and Lane and.you.  
  
"I figured." Of course you did. You have the peculiar ability to turn me inside out and analyze me better than I ever could.  
  
"Paris was a holy terror."  
  
"Why'd you go, anyway?"  
  
I realize that I forgot to tell you, in light of avoiding you after the kiss. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."  
  
You raise your eyebrows. "Impressive," you say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics."  
  
"Well, that's a relief," I joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."  
  
You chuckle humorlessly. "Like you ever would."  
  
You're right, naturally. I want to make a crack about those desperate measures too, but I can just see your reaction: a smirk and a cocked eyebrow. And right now, I'd rather not put myself in such a precarious position. "What about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"School."  
  
"Oh." I don't know what to say, so I turn my hands over in my lap.  
  
"Waited."  
  
"For?" I ask, knowing the answer. You were waiting for me, waiting for me to write you a letter, waiting for me to call you, waiting for me to send a smoke signal or a drum call.  
  
"You." The statement is simple and bare, but it feels like something more.  
  
"I'm sorry," I whisper, fixating on my hands again as they wring themselves. I feel oddly detached from my body; right now, I just feel like a poorly assembled circuit of nerves.  
  
"Don't be."  
  
"Jess, I-"  
  
"Was busy," you finish.  
  
"That's not what I was going to say." Your eyes bore into mine. "Well, that could have been part of it." I take a deep breath, aware of your eyes on my bent head. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."  
  
"It was just a kiss," you say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"It matters to me," I say stubbornly, and I hear you sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."  
  
"That's a load off."  
  
I knew you were going to be difficult. But it's partially my fault: first the avoidance, then the silence, now this fumbling confessional. "So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."  
  
"Well, I kept quiet," you say with a tinge of bitterness seeping into your tone. Your jaw has tightened, and I can tell you're trying not to say something.  
  
"Tell me," I demand, softly.  
  
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"  
  
"Yes," I admit in the same hushed voice.  
  
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?"  
  
"Yes," I repeat.  
  
"Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?"  
  
I pause, then murmur, low and ashamed, "Yes."  
  
You take a deep breath, hold it a moment, and release it. "And still."  
  
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."  
  
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver."  
  
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." My hands fly about weirdly, trying to show the concept in a strange version of charades. I peek through my hair and sneak another look at your profile. Although I'm not prone to judging physical attractiveness as a rule, I'm drawn to you. I like looking at the sharp angle of your cheekbones, the straight slant of your nose, the slightly distorted semicircle of your mouth. I've even ventured a look at the rest of you; I find it alluringly forbidden.  
  
"You need time," you finally utter into the stillness.  
  
I almost nod, but I catch myself. "No," I say, louder than all my other remarks. Your face turns full toward me, and I meet your eyes bravely. They're my favorite feature of yours, and it's not too often I get an opportunity like this to really look at them. I gather my frazzled wits and say, "I need advice."  
  
"I don't think I'm the best person."  
  
"Probably not," I concur, "but I want to hear what you think."  
  
You lean back, slouching more than before. Another deep breath escapes through your lips, and you focus on that ellipsis on the pavement again. "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." Your voice is even and measured, and you add nothing to the effect of, "So we belong together." I wonder if you just don't think so, or if you're trying not to be biased.  
  
"He gets mad really easily," I say. I feel the compulsion to slap my hand over my mouth for letting that slip out. It's none of you're business, to tell you the truth.  
  
"I noticed," you say. Again, you add nothing that might promote you.  
  
"Jess?" I finally venture.  
  
"Yes, Rory?"  
  
I like it when you say my name. It sounds different than anyone else saying it, ever. You say it with as much affection as my mom or Dean, but with something in the last syllable that makes me curious. "Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." I clear my throat anxiously. "Would you." I can't finish the question, so I let it drift off and dissipate.  
  
"Yes," you promise, looking sideways at me.  
  
I nod. "Good," I whisper, then stand. You stand as well, and jam your hands in your pockets, looking down into my face. It's easier to just stand with you; it strains my neck less.  
  
"I'll walk you home," you offer, "since this is such a dangerous town."  
  
"Good idea," I accept. We set off, side by side. You lope carelessly, and I walk like I always have, one foot in front of the other, no special gait. There's silence between us, but it's the good kind, as opposed to the I- just-met-you-so-there's-nothing-to-say, or the I-have-nothing-in-common- with-you, or the I'm-desperate-searching-for-something-to-talk-about silence.  
  
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?"  
  
I shrug. "It had its moments."  
  
"What were they?"  
  
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.  
  
"It was just the opposite for me," you tell me, and I know it's halfway a joke.  
  
"You came back for me." I say it flatly, as a statement, rather than the question I would intone with anyone else.  
  
"Yes," you agree.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write."  
  
"No big deal," you forgive.  
  
"Good." I nod emphatically. We're on the bridge now, and I stop. You walk ahead a couple paces, then stop as well. I just stand and stare at you, and you stare right back.  
  
"What are you thinking?" you ask. You've never asked me this before; you can usually tell.  
  
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again," I inform you, boldly. It's unlike anything I've ever said to anyone before, and you look genuinely surprised.  
  
"By all means," you invite, and step closer. I take one wobbly step forward, my insides rotating at warp speed. "On one condition."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Don't run."  
  
"Can I walk?"  
  
You think. "I suppose."  
  
I smile, and you smile back. It's rare that you smile like this, uninhibited, just because you're happy, or something resembling it. Unsteadily, I reach my hand out and put it on your shoulder. Helping me, you reach out and wrap an arm around my waist, drawing me tight against you, putting the other one between my shoulder blades. I blush; Dean and I never get this close, and you know it, because you're smirking.  
  
The smile slowly fades off my face as I stand on my toes slightly and bring my mouth closer to yours. You lean in, and then, my lower lip is enclosed in your lips. I shut my eyes tightly, willing thoughts of my mom and Dean out of my head, and I put my other arm around your neck, putting my palm flush against the nape and my fingers tangled in your hair.  
  
I breathe in, opening my mouth a little wider, and you take the opportunity to slide your lips up to match mine. I can taste the smoky aftertaste in your mouth, but also something sweeter, something like chocolate. Inadvertently, I open my mouth even more, and you slip your tongue in. Your arm tightens and my fingers threaten to pull out a good chuck of your hair as we move against each other.  
  
Dean doesn't kiss like this. He doesn't fight for domination the way you do. He doesn't force me to give my whole self over to the kiss like you do. He doesn't grasp at me or clutch me or do.whatever it is you're doing with your tongue. I don't know why, but my hand starts to trickle down the front of your shirt, landing on your stomach, caressing it and bunching your shirt in my fist.  
  
Eventually, we separate our lips, but remain pressed together. "I shouldn't be doing this," I murmur, although no real guilt has assaulted me yet. I know I'll lose sleep over this, but it feels good.  
  
"No," you affirm.  
  
I press you against my mouth again, and this time, you kiss me sweeter, slower. I release some of the fabric of your shirt and let up a little on your hair, but continue to stay molded to you. When we break apart again, you peck my lips and cheeks, then my forehead before I bury my head in your neck and hide from the world.  
  
Your hand travels up my back and threads in my hair, and I feel you sigh into me. I've never been this close to anyone; not just physically, but right here, right now, I think we're practically the same person. Our thoughts intersect at a nice ninety-degree angle.  
  
You're starting to move away, but I keep hold of your shirt so you can't go too far. "You should get home," you state, quietly, holding my forearms.  
  
"Yes." I reach out and touch your cheek. It's smoother than I thought it would be, but still more rugged than Dean's. I hate myself for comparing you two. "I won't regret it."  
  
"Neither will I," you say, simply. You look like you want to kiss me again; you know I'd let you. But you just walk back in the direction of Luke's, brushing my shoulder thinly as you pass. I stand on the bridge, staring at nothing for a while, stroking my lips subconsciously. Then I head home, hands in my pockets, past all the neighbors who wave when they see the innocent girl from down the street. I smile and wave back.  
  
***  
  
  
  
I can feel you approaching from behind. I knew you would come to see me, eventually. After you got through seeing everyone else, I knew you would seek me out, a guilty pleasure of sorts. You're standing there behind me, undecided, and I help you out by turning around, acknowledging you. I'm a little surprised when you just stare for a moment, but then you walk forward and sit next to me.  
  
I stub out my cigarette and toss it in the bush. I'm certain that I've violated some retarded town rule by doing so. I don't know what got me started again; I'd quit so suddenly, I'd just left packs lying around, and they looked tempting today. You ape my posture almost comically, but I can't laugh right now. In fact, I can't even crack a smile.  
  
Moments expand between us, and I finally give you an out. "Have fun?"  
  
"Not really," you confess. I had a feeling that you didn't. Your smile was fake today.  
  
"I figured."  
  
"Paris was a holy terror," you add.  
  
You didn't tell me about leaving. I heard that you'd disappeared to Washington from the town gossips as they sat around the diner tables and drank iced tea. "Why'd you go, anyway?"  
  
A mildly surprised look hits your face as you remember that you didn't tell me. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."  
  
"Impressive," I say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics." The joke makes you smile a little, and I feel the strangest rush of pride. Irritated at my own foolishness, I narrowly stop myself from digging for another smoke. You're making me soft.  
  
"Well, that's a relief," you joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."  
  
An unwanted chuckle escapes me. Rory Gilmore, do something less than pristine? Rory Gilmore, do anything that could be termed sexual? Rory Gilmore, using her body to get to the top? Yeah, right, and those must have been icicles in hell. "Like you ever would."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"What about me?" You mean, would I give the president a blow job? Somehow, I don't think that's what you mean.  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"School." I don't add anything to it, because there is nothing to add. School is school, any way you look at it. You know it too, because your response is short.  
  
"Oh."  
  
I don't know whether or not to let you know that you hurt me. Yeah, Rory, you hurt me when you didn't write or call. I didn't think it was possible either, but I think the unfamiliar stinging sensation I had all summer was pain. "Waited." I reveal it in that one word, and I can see you're ashamed.  
  
"For?" You're stalling, and I know it. I've already put this much out there, so another back-handed admission of actual feelings won't hurt.  
  
"You." Again, it's a plain, flat comment, but I know you can tell how meaningful it is. I've never been very good at expressing myself or whatever the psychiatrists are calling it now.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to tell me: are we going somewhere or not? Am I wasting my time on some schoolgirl? "Don't be."  
  
"Jess, I-"  
  
There's a breathless quality to your words, denoting an excuse, since you're talking faster than usual. It means you'll tell me that you had tons of things to do, Paris was terrorizing you, et cetra. "-Was busy," I tack onto the end of your sentence.  
  
"That's not what I was going to say." I stare at you, hard, because I know you're lying. You're a terrible liar. "Well, that could have been part of it." You pause to take a breath. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."  
  
"It was just a kiss," I say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter." And that's what I repeated to myself all summer. Because in my old life? A kiss is nothing. It's not even worth mentioning. But here, with you? It does mean something. It means that you either had enough alcohol to hallucinate and mistake me for Dean, which is highly unlikely, or you actually feel something for me.  
  
"It matters to me," you say firmly, and I sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."  
  
I knew that already. Don't you think I've been watching you ever since I moved here, enough to know that you're the least impulsive person to ever breathe? "That's a load off." My tone is sarcastic, and I know I'm being cold and stubborn, but I can't help myself.  
  
"So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."  
  
"Well, I kept quiet," I say dryly.  
  
"Tell me." It's a soft request.  
  
It's in these moments I think I might be in love with you. These times when you know that I need to say something when no one else would listen. You seem so innocent-which, trust me, you are-but then, out of nowhere, you have some insight, and I think you might understand me with frightening clarity. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"  
  
"Yes." Your voice is quiet and shamed.  
  
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?" That might have been a little harsh, but, head bent, you make the same reply. "Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?" I know this might have pushed it a little far, since you're so defensive, but after a pause, the same word falls from your lips, behind the curtain of hair you're built around yourself. After a deep breath, I say, "And still."  
  
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."  
  
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver." I can feel you becoming frustrated beside me as you gear up to explain yourself.  
  
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." Your hands are gesturing oddly as you try to illustrate the concept in some sort of sign language. I can feel you looking at me through your hair, but I don't turn toward you. This isn't entirely new; there are times at the diner when I can feel you observing me surreptitiously as I go about my work. I've often wondered if you like what you see, but I couldn't ask you now.  
  
"You need time," I finally mutter.  
  
Your head inclines like you're going to nod, but then you stop suddenly. "No," you declare, rather loudly. I turn to you, shocked, as you say, "I need advice."  
  
I thought that was Lorelai's job. Then again, she probably wouldn't want to advise Rory on anything involving the scum who's going to tear her daughter apart. "I don't think I'm the best person."  
  
"Probably not," you agree, then go on to say, "but I want to hear what you think."  
  
I recline against the bench and blow out. I think about the times I've seen you and Dean together, and the time I've spent with you separately. It seems as though you two have nothing in common, even in disposition; Dean is strung up, and you're easygoing, for the most part. It takes me a while to finally come up with, "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." I add nothing to that, letting you come to your own conclusions.  
  
"He gets mad really easily," you blurt out, then redden prettily.  
  
"I noticed," I say wryly, wondering what could possess you to tell me this.  
  
"Jess?" you finally utter.  
  
"Yes, Rory?" I answer.  
  
"Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." You pause, then gain the bravado to continue. "Would you."  
  
Your question floats off and hangs there, dangling tauntingly in the silence. You need assurance, just like I thought you would. So I'll give it to you, since I can't offer a lot else. "Yes."  
  
You nod, looking pleased. I almost smile. "Good," you murmur and stand up. I stand as well and notice you gazing up at me with a thoughtful expression.  
  
I can't just let you leave. It's been too long since I saw you last, and I'm getting addicted, like the damn nicotine. "I'll walk you home," I tell you, "since this is such a dangerous town."  
  
"Good idea," you say, smiling. We start the short walk towards your house, silently. It's nice to have someone that I can just be quiet with. I don't think I've ever had that before, actually.  
  
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?" I break the quietus with a question, partially to hear your voice.  
  
You tilt your shoulders up delicately. "It had its moments."  
  
"What were they?" I ask, expecting you to tell me about some monument. I fully anticipate you talking about some incredible lecture, some speaker you just couldn't stop taking notes with. But again, you surprise me.  
  
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.  
  
"It was just the opposite for me," I say, partly joking.  
  
"You came back for me." Your voice has no implications of a question, and you can't look at me when you say it. This is probably what you tried to say in all those unfinished letters.  
  
"Yes," I concur, simply, reassuring you again.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write." You apology comes out in a run-on sentence, like I predicted it would. I like that about you, that nervous rambly thing you do.  
  
"No big deal," I say, although it was. Still, it'll do no good to hold it over your head.  
  
"Good." You nod your head, and I can tell you're happy. We've reached the bridge, and you stop. This is my favorite place in the entire town, and you know it. We had our picnic here; I'm pretty sure that's when you started thinking about me as more than Luke's nephew, more than the chalk outline guy, more than a moonlighter at the video store. I come here a lot, early in the morning, even before Luke has arisen.  
  
"What are you thinking?" I finally query. Your expression has changed to something that seems eerily familiar. If I were into kidding myself, I'd say that it looks like the expression you had on just before you kissed me at the wedding.  
  
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again." For once, my face betrays me for a second. I doubt whether you've ever said anything like that to anyone. And even though I know it's wrong for me and even wrong-er for you, I want you to kiss me again. I want that feeling to flood me again, the feeling that's halfway in between joy and pain, fear and courage.  
  
"By all means," I say, and walk a little closer to you. You look nervous as you step forward too, though I can see determination in your eyes. "On one condition," I stipulate.  
  
"Okay." Your voice shakes just the slightest bit.  
  
"Don't run." I make it a joke, but I don't know if I could take a second kiss-and-run.  
  
"Can I walk?"  
  
"I suppose." We smile at each other, and for one, I just let myself relax. You tentatively reach a hand out and put it on my shoulder, exerting just the slightest pressure. Knowing how alien this is to you, I wrap an arm around your waist. I reel you in, and my other arm secures you by lying on your back. Closer and closer I pull you until we're flush against each other; I can feel your chest inflate as you breathe, pushing against mine. You blush as you realize our proximity, and I can't help but smile at your easy shockability.  
  
Your smile wanes, and you stand on your toes, bringing your lips nearer; I stare at your mouth for a moment before taking your bottom lip between my lips. I surrender to you, shutting my eyes and letting you get used to the feeling of being so close to me. Your other arm snakes around my neck, and you put your cool palm at the base of my neck.  
  
A shallow breath parts your lips, and I lock mine with yours. I get a bigger taste of what I sampled at the wedding: peppermint and something very sweet and fruity. You're adjusting to my taste, and I wish I hadn't smoked again tonight; then again, I had no inkling that this would happen. I can tell you've gotten acclimated: your mouth opens, and I dive in, harder than I mean to. My arm clenches, and so does your hand. It feels like you could rip some of my hair out, but I don't care, I just shift against you.  
  
Your hand slips down my chest, landing on my stomach and bunching my shirt in your fist. I suppress the instinct to groan or pin you against something, opting instead to break apart before I do something I'll regret.  
  
"I shouldn't be doing this," you whisper.  
  
"No," I confirm.  
  
Despite your confession of wrongdoing, you press against my lips again, and I kiss you back, letting you set the pace. Your grip loosens a bit, and you start moving your fingers through my hair, stroking my head. You keep the kiss short, and I bestow tiny, staccato kisses on your face. Looking scared, you put your head in the crook of my neck. I bury my hand in your soft, fine hair and sigh, and for once in a long time, I feel content.  
  
I know, though, that this will come to an end. You'll always leave; you may not run, but you will always have something else to go to. I step away, but you've got a hold of my shirt, and you won't let go. Steadying us both, I take hold of your forearms. "You should get home." My voice is strained, and I hope you can't tell.  
  
"Yes." Your hand reaches out, and one long finger caresses my cheek. I can see in your eyes that thoughts of Dean are running through your head. "I won't regret it," you inform me.  
  
"Neither will I." I want to stay here, with you, all night, but it'll be easier if I just walk away. There's less chance of doing something I will regret. Without warning, I walk past you, nudging your shoulder just a bit.  
  
The streets of Stars Hollow are still dead silent as I walk through the cooling summer air to Luke's, hands in my pockets. I should feel guilty. My mind should be whirring a hundred miles an hour about now. It's blank now, though, as I meander toward Luke's; there's only a lukewarm substance flowing through me. As I step inside, I idly think it might be love. 


	2. Part Two: The Diner

****

Shoot the Moon

__

Part Two

It's fall now, the air crisp with the absence of summer, and especially sharp with the onslaught of night. The sky is pitch black, dotted with stars whose existence I doubted while living in New York. Here, though, I've tried to pick out constellations before catching myself and remembering that four-year-old girls do that.

I look up when the door chimes and you walk in. You're shivering—no coat—and your knees are knocking together in your skirt. Wordlessly, your hair hanging down around your face, you sit at the counter. I set a cup of coffee in front of you, and you extend an arm out and bring it up to your mouth. Silently, you look up to thank me.

I feel what I think might be sympathy course through me when I see your face. Your eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with tears, and your chin is wobbling. Without looking away, I hand you a napkin, and you daintily dab your eyes. "Thanks," you whisper brokenly.

Looking down, I start wiping tables. "What happened?" I ask, whisking my rag over the smooth surface.

All I hear from you is a slurp and a sniffle. Slurp. Sniffle. Slurp. Sniffle. "Dean and I broke up." Sob. Realizing that the last sound didn't fit the pattern, I release my rag and turn. You're looking down, towards your shoes and blue toes, but I can see the tear trailing down your cheek. "I just didn't expect it." I can hear the shame in your voice.

"When?"

You just shake your head, then look up and nod outside. My eyes follow your gaze as you look into the Horn of Plenty. I see the townspeople all celebrating—eating, singing, having seizures that must pass as dancing around here—and wonder how this might indicate time. Then I spot an exceptionally tall head moving away from the festivities.

Turning back, I see that you've resumed your former position of staring at your shoes. I check my watch; ten minutes to closing. I lock the door and shut off the front lights to deter any hungry passerby, then start to wipe the counter down. You slowly start to stand. "I'll leave," you say.

My eyes flick up. "Why?"

With a spasmodic gesture, you say, "You're closing."

"I've gotta get rid of this coffee." I tilt my head invitingly toward the pot, and you bite your lip.

"No trouble?"

"Please. You'd be doing me a favor. Especially if you want to lick it when you're done."

A smile threatens to crawl over your face, and you sit again, holding the cup out. I obligingly fill it, set the pot next to you, then start doing diner duties again. For a good fifteen minutes, you just observe, watching as I clean and arrange. You've gone through two-and-a-half cups so far.

"I knew it would happen," you finally tell me. "I mean, everybody knew." You laugh with no mirth. You swallow loudly. "But in the middle of everything?" With a soft, gasping inhalation, you say, "It was just so humiliating."

Pivoting, I look at you. Your eyes are watery again, and you're staring awfully hard at that cup. A sudden surge of rage shoots through me. Pursing my lips, I suppress it. "I can brew more," I offer, indicating the pot with a nod of my head.

"No." You stand. "I should get home." 

"Right." I want to ask you to stay and confide in me, but you would refuse. Ever since the night on the bridge, you haven't exactly avoided me, but I see the embarrassment in your eyes. And, I reflect bitterly, it didn't seem to expedite your eminent split with Big McLargeTall. 

But you just stand there uncertainly. "Jess?"

"Hmm?"

You take a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"Oh." Great. Just great. Now you're going to apologize about the bridge, and how you realized that you shouldn't have betrayed Dean like that, and it's just not right.

"I didn't mean to avoid you." Really? 'Cause it seems like that takes some pretty deliberate forethought. "It just…it took me a long time to tell Dean. I mean, Dean and I haven't been getting along lately, but he's still my first love, and he never deserved to be treated like that. And it really hurt me to tell him." You twist your foot, your heel the fulcrum, and stare at the ground, oddly shimmery in the dim florescent light. "But I don't regret it."

Blinking, I let that last statement wash over me. "No?" I muster, walking around the counter towards you.

Mute, you shake your head, then look downward. All of a sudden, you're crying in earnest, shoulders shaking, and you turn to leave, hiding your face. Desperate for some reason to comfort you, I encircle your wrist with my fingers, urging you to stay. Pausing, you turn, not looking at me, and I draw you into me. I feel you sinking, quaking, giving into me and you slowly accept my embrace. Wetness seeps into my shirt as you cry, your fingers curling around my shoulder. I don't say anything and neither do you; we just cling together in the warmth of the diner, swaying slightly, you crying and me staring at the top of your head.

After a good long cry, you look up, your eyes swollen, then back away a bit. "I'm sorry," you say.

"Why?"

"For…" You gesture, as though this makes the sentence complete. "It was…just a bad day. My dad and I had a big fight, and then this Dean thing…" Again, you just let the sentence stay suspended in the air, floating away. "I need to go home."

"All right," I agree. You turn and leave, slipping through the door, walking close to the building to avoid being noticed by one of the local lunatics. I watch you go, feeling the damp spot on my shirt acutely. I'm still standing there when Luke comes in, disgruntled per usual.

"Jess!"

"What?" I mutter, looking at him.

"Why didn't you let me in?" Huh? I think. He got in. "I was standin' there, poundin' on the door…coulda sworn you were starin' right at me."

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Somethin' wrong?" Luke asks, shedding his coat and heading towards the stairs. I don't reply, so he comes up next to me. "Jess?"

Snapping out of it I say, "No. Nothing's wrong." I move around Luke and go upstairs, shutting myself in my room, flipping the stereo on. I have no idea what's playing. All I can remember is your scent: light perfume, shampoo and tears, the way you leaned into me, exhausted, the trust that finally radiated off of you. I roll onto my side, staring out the window at the stars.

*

The Horn of Plenty is utterly silent. Dean's voice has stopped ringing through the square, but it resonates in my head, ringing like a bad recording. My mouth opens, trying to say…something, but nothing will come out. The townspeople look on, amazed, wishing that no one else was here so that they could have the privilege of being first with this news. Dean shakes his head and turns away; I just stand and stare, agape. Slowly, the town resumes its activities. Miss Patty comes over and tries to comfort me, but I know who I need.

It's strange, this feeling of needing you. Before, it was always my mother, but now, as I grow and change and whatnot, I'm growing into my own person in need of someone who's never been related to me. I jog across the street to the diner, the townspeople undoubtedly looking on in astonishment. The familiar bell, which sparks a Pavlovian response in me, chimes when I walk in. I've slowed down now, enough to notice that I'm freezing cold in my skirt. 

I let my hair fall down, across my face, which must look atrocious: teary eyes, chapped lips, pale from the cold. The barstool calls to me, and I sit on it, as a soldier might after battle. You silently hand me a cup of coffee, and I'm grateful for the lack of prying. Forgetting about the state of my face, I look up and thank you with my expression. I see something like empathy flash across your face, and you hand me a napkin. I recall what my face looks like, and halfheartedly wipe my eyes. "Thanks," I murmur, my voice unsteady.

You finally break the gaze, looking away to wipe tables. "What happened?" you ask.

Oh, if only I could tell you the whole convoluted tale of my day. I long to take this cup of coffee and go upstairs with you, curl up on the couch and talk it through, from my dad—jerk extraordinaire—to Dean. I sip my coffee and do my best to sniffle quietly as I ponder. "Dean and I broke up." This is such a pathetic summary that I can't stop the loud, gasping sob that slips through my lips. You set your rag down and turn to me, but my face is obscured by the hair drooping down. I feel the peculiar need to justify myself. "I just didn't expect it."

"When?"

I want to say, "Three minutes ago," but instead, I just shake my head, then nod outside. Confused, you look out there too, obviously trying to piece together my breaking up with Dean, the time, and the wacky festival. You see something, and your head starts to turn back. Quickly, my eyes flicker back to my shoes. 

You don't look for long. Then, you start locking up and shutting off lights; I take this as my cue to go. I wouldn't want to talk to me either. Still, you say nothing, so I volunteer, "I'll leave."

Your eyes come up to pin me with your gaze. "Why?"

It's obvious: you're closing. I wave my hand around, trying to encompass the diner in a weak gesture, and say, "You're closing."

"I've gotta get rid of this coffee." You cock you head in the direction of the pot.

I want to kiss you, but I know that I can't. To keep myself in check, I bite my lip. More than anything, I want to stay here with you, talk to you. "No trouble?"

"Please. You'd be doing me a favor. Especially if you want to lick it when you're done."

My mouth instantly curves into a tiny smile. Around me, you become warmer than with anyone else; people would be shocked to find that you have a sense of humor. For a long while, I sit on a barstool while you move about the diner. I watch you as your clothes slump and fold against you, as your shirt strains when you lift, as your mouth contorts imperceptibly with exertion. Sipping my coffee, I organize my thoughts. "I knew it would happen," I say, out of nowhere. "I mean, everybody knew." A cold, bitter laugh escapes me. Everyone but me, as usual. "But in the middle of everything?" The memories hit me again, hard. "It was just so humiliating," I say, after a pathetic gasp of suppressed tears. 

You spin, but I stare at my cup, determined not to cry. The tears well up in my eyes like puddles but I manage to keep them in. "I can brew more," you say. I think the offer means more, but now I'm not ready. I have to go, now.

"No." I stand without ceremony, needing to leave quickly. "I should get home."

"Right," you answer. There's something in the edge of your voice that says multitudes, but if I let myself believe it, I'll fall. And after that, there's no going back.

Something in me won't let me go. I feel torn, half of me wanting to run to the door, the other half needing to tell you something. The latter half wins. "Jess?" My voice sounds silly and childish to my ears.

"Hmm?" you say, rather dryly.

"I'm sorry." I know. I know that I said on the bridge that I wasn't sorry, but I am. Sorrier than you'll ever know. I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want the security of a small-town boyfriend or the excitement of you. I don't know if I'm winding up like my mom, always scared of getting in too deep. And I'm dragging you with me. Although you've probably been hurt worse, it hurts me to be the one causing you pain. Am I?

"Oh." You sound disappointed, heavily embittered. I guess that's my answer.

"I didn't mean to avoid you," I blurt out. And it's true. I fully intended to seek you out, talk about the situation rationally. But then I saw you, your ever-calm face and defensive stance, and I couldn't do it. "It just…it took me a long time to tell Dean. I mean, Dean and I haven't been getting along lately, but he's still my first love, and he never deserved to be treated like that. And it really hurt me to tell him." This is true as well. I've been riddled with guilt for weeks, hating myself for hurting not only you, but Dean, who, despite your low opinion, is still a wonderful guy, who deserves to be with someone who can love him like he loves me. Nervous, I fiddle with my foot, trying to gain the bravado to say the next thing I have to say. "But I don't regret it."

You're silent for a second. "No?"

I'm captivated by something in your eyes, rendered unable to speak. I simply wag my head back and forth, then look at the ground. Without warning, the day comes crashing over me, breaking me like a piñata in the sea. Guilt and hurt fall on me in waves, hurtling me against the rocks, and I'm sobbing, crying harder than I have in a long time. I think it was the hope in your eyes that pushed me over the edge. I turn to leave, ashamed, but your fingers grasp my wrist urgently.

I stop for a moment. Then, frantic for someone to comfort me, I let you pull me in. You hold me tight, let me soak your shirt with the suffering of a naïve schoolgirl. Grateful for your strength, I wrap my fingers around your shoulder and hold on. Gently, you rock back and forth, clutching me as I gasp and cry and shake. After a long, long time, I glance up and disentangle myself from the comforting embrace. "I'm sorry," is the only thing I can think to say.

Perplexed, you ask, "Why?"

I don't really have an answer, so I just say, "For…" and shuffle my hand a little. Then I start making excuses. "It was…just a bad day. My dad and I had a big fight, and then this Dean thing…" I can't think of a thing to add to this miserable little monologue, so I just let it drift off into nowhere. "I need to go home," I conclude.

"All right," you say neutrally. For some reason, this makes me sadder, and I slip through a small opening in the diner door. Wanting to stay as close to you as possible, I cling to the wall of the diner. I can see my mother as I walk home, sitting in front of the television with a cup of coffee and some junk food, laughing and mocking programs. I see myself in sixteen years, doing the same thing, and it scares me. Am I going to turn out just like my mother? Afraid to commit, lonely, trying to fill voids with television and movies and junk food? Suddenly, I'm scared. I see your face, softly hopeful, the shape of your lips, the texture of your shirt. I fight the impulse to turn around and tell you everything. Everything being that I can see myself in sixteen years, miserable and frightened to live my life. Everything being that I didn't want to leave tonight, not in my heart. Everything being that I think I might legitimately be in love with you and too scared to do anything about it.

  
  



	3. Part Three: Upstairs

****

Shoot the Moon

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Part Three: Upstairs

I rush into the warm heat of the diner, escaping the winter swirling around me, made tangible by the tiny white flakes. My dark coat is speckled with the frozen white weather and I half-heartedly brush it off. Grinning to myself, I remember that my mother predicted this last night. Luke already has a cup of coffee and a disapproving look ready for me. Thankful, I sit at the counter and sip for a moment, reviving my frigid body with the piping hot panacea.

Ten minutes pass, but still, no sign of you. Negligibly upset with the break in our established routine, I wait for Luke to come close. "Luke?"

"What?"

"Where's Jess?" I ask, then down the rest of the cup.

Luke jerks his head toward the stairwell. "He's upstairs."

"Oh." I bite my lip, and hesitantly shove my cup towards him. "Can I…?"

"Go ahead." Luke takes my cup and follows me with his eyes as I mount the stairs. 

I stand outside the door of the renovated apartment for an indeterminate amount of time, trying to decide whether you wanted me to come up here or not. Maybe you were trying to tell me something by not being downstairs this afternoon. Knocking on the door takes courage; I never know what you're going to do. I manage to gather enough steel to tap lightly on the door. "Hey," I say apprehensively when you open it.

"Hey." You walk away from the door but leave it open. I take it this means I'm supposed to follow you, so I do, stepping into the appreciably larger space.

"It's nice."

"Yeah." You're walking down a hallway, and yet again, I trail you, wondering what's going on. We end up in what I can only assume is your room, based on the scattered books and CD's. My gaze lands on the bed; there's a half-full duffel bag, which you are hastily stuffing.

"Where are you going?" I ask, my heart contracting.

"New York."

I wish there was a chair handy, but I just have to force myself to remain upright. "What?"

"New York," you repeat, muffled in the closet.

Giving up, I sit on a clean edge of the bed, digging my fingers into the mattress. I can tell that you are in no mood to talk, but I have to know: "Why?" My question is greeted only by the shuffle of clothing as you arrange it in the bag like a Rubick's Cube. The silence lengthens until it is measurable in minutes. "Jess?"

"Something came up."

"Are you…going back…for good?" The words hurt to say.

"No." Your reply is short and succinct, like it wouldn't matter either way.

"What came up?" I know you hate it when people pry, but I can't stop myself.

Sighing, you throw some books on top and zip the suitcase. "Old friend."

"Your mom's okay?"

You shoot me a look. "Yeah…"

"When are you leaving?"

"Couple hours."

"How long are you staying?"

You shrug nonchalantly. "However long it takes."

"What takes?"

"I'm seeing the interest in journalism now."

"Jess." I give you a stern look, even though I guess it's really none of my business. There's no answer from you. "It's the holidays."

"So?"

Well, duh. "So…it's that warm, fuzzy, silver bells and fattening foods time of year. I mean…don't you want to be around for that?"

"It's just another few weeks."

"It is not," I say warmly, "it's special." You just roll your eyes and duck into the closet. "What?"

"Come on, Rory, you don't honestly believe the message of corporate America. I thought you were smarter than that."

Hurt by your tone and accusation, I cross my arms and stand. "I guess you were wrong." Again, there's only silence from your side of the room. "Have fun in New York," I mutter coldly as I leave. Once outside your bedroom door, I pause and think. You won't chase after me. Resolutely, I turn around and march back into your room. "Were you planning on telling me?"

Surprised that I've come back, you wheel around. "What?"

"Were you planning on telling me that you were leaving?" I reiterate, slowly. "Jess?"

"What's the point?"

"What?" I knit my brows together, puzzled. What do you mean, what's the point? "The point is that I…I wanted to know you were leaving," I sputter.

"Right, Rory. You wouldn't have even cared."

"I care."

"You care because I didn't tell you."

"Not true." I can feel my cheeks flushing as my aggravation keens. Frustrated, my eyes start to water.

"Come on, Rory. I'm just the friend who happens to be conveniently placed by the coffee maker." You walk closer to me as you speak, boring holes into my face with a smoldering, angry stare.

My mouth drops open a bit, and hurt and guilt suffuse my nervous system. "That's not true. And you know it," I add.

"Do I?" You grab the bag and shimmy past me. After blinking a couple of times and attempting to restore calm, I trace your steps. You've dropped the bag by the front door and are getting a glass of water.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to be rational.

The clock hanging on the wall ticks as you finish your water. "You kissed me three months ago, Rory. You've broken up with your boyfriend, and I'm not attached. Since you're so good at school, what would be the logical progression here, Rory? Now I know this isn't multiple choice, but I think short-answers are still better than essays, don't you?"

Your words hit me like individual lightning strikes, and I just try to inhale and exhale normally. I know what I want to say: I love you, and I'm scared, but that definitely won't come out. "It's not like I've been ignoring you," I murmur.

"So true. A rousing thirty-minute discussion after school seems to be my allotted Rory dosage. Prescribed by Lorelai?"

"My mother has nothing to do with this," I say firmly, maybe a little louder than necessary.

"Then what, Rory? Jesus, make up your mind!" You breeze past me and through the door, slamming it shut seismically after you.

Not even thinking, I hurtle out of my seat and run after you: through the door, down the narrow steps, through the diner of awe-struck onlookers, and out into the town square where you're walking rapidly. I catch up and grab your arm, causing you to whirl around and almost crash into me. "I have made up my mind!" I yell into your face, not caring who hears me. "Okay? But I'm not the only person in this situation. What encouragement have I been getting on your end, Jess? Do you ever make me think _you_ might want more? Do you ever make me think that I'm worth it to you? What guarantee do I have that I won't make a fool of myself if I…" I let that sentence waft away, take a breath, and start in again. You're staring at me, partially shocked, partially angry, and, I think, a little chagrined. "So, yeah, it's my fault that I kissed you. But don't blame me for everything afterwards." I storm past you, turning to holler, "I hope you find someone worth it in New York!"

On the walk home, my statements roll over and over in my head. I've cooled down enough to realize that perhaps I was a bit harsh; you haven't done anything wrong after all, not really. It's my own fault that I don't have the guts to just come out with it. I know that I'll be racked with guilt and pain while you're in New York. I guess I can only hope that you think about what I said—or screamed, rather.

At home, I shove the door open slowly. "Hey," Mom says. "Where's your backpack?" As I make my way past her, I recall leaving it on the floor by my usual barstool at Luke's. It's not like we won't be going there tomorrow, though. "Rory?" she calls.

I just roll over, knowing she'll hear it from Babette in a matter of minutes. Jamming a pillow over my head, I drown out the world, close my eyes, and think about you.

*

Snow is swirling around outside my window, and I vaguely wonder if you've got your winter coat on today. No one was expecting this snowfall. Tearing myself away from the window, and—hopefully—thoughts of you, I continue packing my duffel, pretty haphazardly. I'm usually a fairly neat packer, but I'm in a rush today.

I hear your footsteps as you clod up the staircase. I bite my lip, torn between being pleased that you're seeking me out, and anxious at the thought of seeing you. All I can hear now is the usual hub-bub of the diner, so you're probably standing outside the door. In my mind, I can see you gnawing on your lip like a piece of chewing gum as you consider knocking. Somewhere, I think you're a little afraid of me. Finally, there's a soft rap on the door. I just open the door and stand there expectantly. "Hey," you breathe softly, and I almost forget that I'm mad at you. Your cheeks are flushed from the cold, and you hair still has a few persistent snowflakes scattered about.

"Hey." My response is the same word, but not at all. It's harsh and curt, and I almost wince. I abandon the door and slide back into the apartment.

"It's nice," you say. I'm fairly sure you mean the apartment, but I'm not looking at you.

"Yeah." That's a pretty universal agreement. I just continue walking down the corridor that leads to my bedroom, the first real bedroom that someone has reserved solely for me. My bag is lying open on the bed, and I stuff random things in.

"Where are you going?" you ask, fear slipping into your tone.

"New York." I purposely offer no details, wondering what you'll do.

"What?"

"New York," I reiterate, burrowed in the closet, retrieving whatever I can reach.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare straight ahead. "Why?" I don't want to answer that question. I don't think you'll want to know. "Jess?"

My brain races, trying to think whether or not I want to admit the real reason. It might make you see the light, but then again, it might just hurt you. "Something came up." That sounds good. Mysterious.

"Are you…going back…for good?" You pound out the words like an old manual typewriter, sounding strained. It makes me feel a little better.

"No." I keep my reply short, attempting indifference. Why the hell would I want to go back?

"What came up?" 

You're only going to suffer for asking these questions. And now that I have you here, right where I want you, I just can't tell you. "Old friend." This is partially true. I'm staying with an old friend.

"Your mom's okay?"

I don't think I heard you right. If my mom weren't okay, Luke would have had a fit by now, closed the diner. "Yeah…"

"When are you leaving?"

"Couple hours," I toss off nonchalantly.

"How long are you staying?"

I just shrug. I'd been planning on a couple of weeks, at least until the holidays and break and all are over. "However long it takes."

"What takes?" You're practically trying to force it out of me. Maybe I was wrong that night in the car—that fateful night—maybe journalism is your thing.

"I'm seeing the interest in journalism now."

"Jess." You give me the "stern face." I stifle the urge to call you on it, and turn again into the closet. "It's the holidays."

I know that. That's half the reason for leaving this saccharine town. "So?"

"So…it's that warm, fuzzy, silver bells and fattening foods time of year. I mean…don't you want to be around for that?" Oh, God. You sound like Taylor, like a townie.

"It's just another few weeks."

"It is not," you say heatedly, "it's special." Rolling my eyes, I seek refuge in the closet again. I might put a book or something in there at some point, for all the time I'm spending in there lately. "What?"

"Come on, Rory, you don't honestly believe the message of corporate America. I thought you were smarter than that." The last statement is cruel, but maybe it'll piss you off. Maybe it'll make you mad enough not to miss me and just forget about me.

There's a pause after my display of jerkiness. "I guess you were wrong." I remain utterly quiet. "Have fun in New York," you say sarcastically, then leave. I breathe a sigh out, knowing that you hate me again. I guess everything's in the right: Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf are in their established places. "Were you planning on telling me?"

I almost fall over. Why on earth would you come back? "What?"

"Were you planning on telling me that you were leaving?" you repeat, enunciating every word. "Jess?"

"What's the point?" I finally explode. It doesn't seem like an explosion, but it is. Some wire has short-circuited, and you're going to get hurt. I don't want you to, but this ridiculous wishy-washy cycle of yours has got to be stopped. I want to shout that I'm going to New York to get away from you. You won't have school, and you'll be in the diner, tantalizing me with endless discussions that lead nowhere.

"What?" You look perplexed. "The point is that I…I wanted to know you were leaving," you stutter.

"Right, Rory. You wouldn't have even cared," I sneer.

"I care," you say defensively.

"You care because I didn't tell you."

"Not true." Your cheeks are reddening again, and you look intoxicating, your eyes burning bright.

"Come on, Rory. I'm just the friend who happens to be conveniently placed by the coffee maker." It's true, isn't it? I involuntarily step closer to you, my anger magnetically attracted to yours.

Your jaw drops a bit, and I recall the night on the bridge before refocusing. "That's not true. And you know it."

"Do I?" How would I know that, Rory? Have you _ever_ told me that you have intentions other than just talking to me, teasing me? I grab my bag and weasel through the aperture between you and the door, noticing strands of hair that cling to me. Damn it, I'm going to smell like you. In the kitchen, I can think of nothing to do but get some water.

"What do you mean?" you inquire, following me.

I finish the water, gathering my thoughts. "You kissed me three months ago, Rory. You've broken up with your boyfriend, and I'm not attached. Since you're so good at school, what would be the logical progression here, Rory? Now I know this isn't multiple choice, but I think short-answers are still better than essays, don't you?" I'm feeling truculent, and I know from the look on your face that I've hurt you.

"It's not like I've been ignoring you," you mutter helplessly.

"So true. A rousing thirty-minute discussion after school seems to be my allotted Rory dosage. Prescribed by Lorelai?" I wonder haughtily.

"My mother has nothing to do with this," you say emphatically.

"Then what, Rory? Jesus, make up your mind!" I storm past you, not bothering to grab a coat, and stomp down the stairs, past all the pathetic patrons, and out into the blistering cold. It's still snowing, pretty hard, and I feel the cold hack at my body. It feels good. It feels like _something_.

A tug on my arm makes me turn around abruptly. Evidently, you've caught up. You yank me so hard, I nearly end up smacking you in the face when I turn. "I have made up my mind!" you scream. "Okay? But I'm not the only person in this situation. What encouragement have I been getting on your end, Jess? Do you ever make me think _you_ might want more? Do you ever make me think that I'm worth it to you? What guarantee do I have that I won't make a fool of myself if I…So, yeah, it's my fault that I kissed you. But don't blame me for everything afterwards." You flounce off, turning only to holler, "I hope you find someone worth it in New York!"

I just sort of waiver there in the cold that has now made me numb, and stare after you. I feel almost happy, or as close to it as I have since that night on the bridge. Isn't it funny? All my happiest moments are connected with you. You feel something for me. It might not be what you felt for Dean, and it might not be as great in volume as what you feel for your mother, hell, even Luke, but you feel something. You with your straight-arrow perfection have some sort of emotional stirrings for the abandoned, trouble-making Brooklyn hoodlum.

I stand out there forever, freezing and not feeling it, until Luke comes out. "Jess?" he asks in his usual gruff, but somehow affectionate manner. "It's practically a blizzard out here." I still can't answer. "You look like Lorelai, standin' out here," he finally mutters, grabbing my attention. Lorelai? I'm nothing like Lorelai. 

After a little, I trail Luke into the warm diner, so warm it almost hurts. Still sullenly silent, I plod up the stairs and shut the door securely behind me. The bag is still on the floor, looking dejected in a way, knowing before I did that it wouldn't be used. I pick it up and carry it to my room, tossing it in the closet.

****

A/N: Thank you for all the positive reviews. I really appreciate it. Please, tell me what worked, what didn't…even if you think it sucks, tell me.


	4. Part Four: The Storeroom

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Shoot the Moon

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Part Four: The Storeroom

You walk into the diner the next day, bereft of your school uniform. Strangely, your mother is nowhere to be seen or heard. I watch you for a moment, twisting my ever-present rag in my hands, as you look down, brushing snow off your coat. Your hair flows down, sweeping your pink cheeks gingerly. Satisfied with the quick brush job, you look up, your eyes impossibly bright and blue. They flicker around the diner, looking for something; you don't find it, and approach the counter, oblivious to my presence. Taking the last empty stool, you fold your hands on the diner counter.

When you pass your eyes over the bustling diner again, you see me. Instantly, your jaw slackens, parting your lips just a little. Your eyes look me up and down in a cursory observation, then focus on my face. I keep looking at you, wringing the rag casually. Fishing for words, your mouth opens like you're going to address me, but you just shut it, blink, and stand up in a hurry. 

You can't leave, not after our argument, not after I stayed in this _Pleasantville_ of a town for you. "Rory!" I say, loudly. The entire diner stops chattering in .04 seconds flat, and the patrons are torn between looking at you and looking at me. Again, you look like you might say something, but close your lips tight and start fishing for your gloves. Swiftly, I walk up to you, standing just inches away. Every pair of eyes is fixated on us, and you blush. "Talk to me," I demand softly, trying to keep the conversation away from the piqued ears.

"You were leaving!" you exclaim quietly, sounding distinctly unhappy.

"Was," I say. "Come on." I put my hand on your elbow and lead you back into the storeroom before you can even say anything. 

"I'm meeting my mom!" you protest as I shut the door behind us.

"She'll know what happened the second she walks in the door," I rationalize. You don't say anything, just purse your lips. "Are you mad at me?"

"You were leaving!" you repeat vehemently.

"Did you want me to leave?"

About four looks cross your face in a nanosecond. Rolling your eyes, you gesture widely with your hands, flailing about for an answer. "No!" you finally holler. I almost say something when you continue, "But you can't do that to me!"

__

What? "What?" I vocalize.

"Say one thing and do another."

"_I_ can't do that to _you_?" I ask incredulously. "Rory—"

"No, you can't!" Finally, you stomp your foot in frustration. "I just want to know, one way or the other."

"About what?" I ask, refraining from yelling something I might regret.

"Anything! Are you leaving or aren't you?"

"No."

"Well then, what came up?"

"Oh, Christ, Rory, I made that up!" I yell, exasperated with your obliviousness.

"What? Why?"

"I had to get out of this town."

"Well, you still can," you snap bitterly.

"I wanted to see if you'd care," I admit, feeling utterly pathetic. Since when does Jess Mariano become defined by some schoolgirl? I'm almost mad at you.

"Well, I did," you say, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. You look around the storeroom, taking in the exhilarating jars of pickles and loaves of bread. In the florescent light, you look even paler than usual, your hair glinting dimly.

"Good," is all I can think to say.

  
"Isn't it?" you mutter. I don't say anything to that. Curiously, you look over at me. "Then… why did you stay?"

So this must have been the encouragement you were talking about. The air seems to have changed; this is clearly a defining moment. I've never been good at these kinds of moments, the ones where I can't joke, can't be sarcastic, and if I say the wrong words, the entire world is thrown off its rotation. Suddenly, unbidden, memories of my past relationships with the female sex inundate me. My mother floats in front of my face, with her mildly unkempt hair and pitifully wrinkled clothes, her perpetually tired expression, her wilted voice. I can see her face as she told me I was being shipped here, the way she could hardly stand to look at me anymore.

I see all my old "girlfriends" flash into my mind, their separate defining miniskirts and see-through tops, blurs of legs and hair. I can't remember then completely, just snippets of each; first names, usually, occasionally a last. Few characteristics come to mind, just simple things, favorite foods, a penchant for a certain type of sheet maybe, but little in the way of personality.

I even see my grandmother, possibly the only female to actually love me. Of course, she never saw me mature beyond the age of ten, when I was still an okay kid. I recall her soft touch, her ancient, creased hands, and her talcum powder scent. Her voice floods over me, mellifluous, comforting. 

"Jess?" you ask timidly, concerned, dragging me back to reality.

"I'm not good at this," I say, too harshly, and start to leave. Unexpectedly, you capture my arm and draw me gently toward you.

"What were you thinking about?" you ask, your face soft and forgiving. You're apologizing. 

I just shake my head slowly back and forth, looking to the floor. "I'm sorry," I finally say.

Your hand squeezes my arm hard, then you let up on the pressure until your hand is barely resting on my bicep. "Me too," you murmur. "I didn't want to hurt you," you say in a low voice.

You never want to, of course; you're not malicious. But you did, Rory, whether you intended to or not. This is where your inexperience is obvious. No one with romantic experience would say that, because it's beside the point. People will always get hurt when their hearts are involved, so there's no purpose is saying that you didn't "want" to hurt someone. But you wouldn't know that; you think that relationships should be logical, like math; you think there should be one correct solution where no one ends up suffering.

That's why I had been so careful in the past to keep my heart out of everything. Once you've put that out there, let yourself become vulnerable, there's no guarantee that you won't get hurt. I hope you don't have to figure that out.

"I know," I say after a long pause.

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you…not go…because of me?" you inquire shyly, hopefully.

"Why else would I stay here?" I ask rhetorically.

"Right." You wait, then take a huge breath that I can practically feel. "Jess?"

"Yes, Rory?" I tilt my head and look straight at you, wanting to see every nuance in expression.

"Do you want to be with me?" you ask, then redden heartily, unaccustomed to being so forward.

I feel the blood course through me, but it doesn't feel like blood. It feels like air, like if I wanted to, I could float. You're giving me another chance at the defining moment, and I only have to say one word, but it just won't come. Biting your lip, you look to me, nervous. When I don't answer after a few seconds, you just nod and start walking towards the storage room door.

I can't let you leave. If I do, I'll kick myself, because I'll be the only one to blame. I don't want to look back twenty years from now and wonder; I'm not that person, always pining for the past. So I grab you and yank you roughly into me. Startled, you can't even react as you let your body crash into mine. One hand at the small of your back, the other at the base of your head, I kiss you, unleashing all the pent-up emotions I've had stored for a moment like this.

It doesn't take you long to respond, and you press against me, dueling desperately with me. The kiss stretches on and on, accompanied by the utter stillness of the storage room and the faded hubbub of the diner. A whimper forms at the back of your throat and I back you against a wall, molding myself into your soft curves.

All of a sudden, the door opens and I hear, "Ah, geez!" Quickly, we tear apart to find Luke shaking his head and rummaging for something or other. "You might wanna…take that upstairs," Luke says, studiously not looking at us.

"Wow, Uncle Luke," I say suggestively. "Should you really be advocating this?"

"Shut up," Luke snaps. "Ah, Rory, your mom's waiting…driving me insane…so, you know…soon…whenever you can," Luke flounders.

"Okay," you say, avoiding Luke's eyes.

"All right," Luke says, then leaves, taking his bottle of mustard with him.

We look at each other, the intensity of the previous moment shattered. You look warmly at me, then smile slightly, biting your swollen lip. "Was that a 'yes'?" you tease.

"Take it how you want," I say.

You grin, then cock your head towards the door. "My mom."

"Right."

"But I'll see you later, right?"

"Yeah," I agree, not able to keep the tiny smirk off my face.

"Good," you whisper, then kiss me lightly on the mouth before disappearing through the door. I lean against the wall and shut my eyes, remembering the feeling of your lips on mine, the heavenly feel of your softness against my body, your scent branded in my mind. Composing myself, I pick the rag off the floor where I dropped it and enter the diner as inconspicuously as possible.

It doesn't matter; all the gossips are already babbling a thousand miles a minute, no doubt commenting on your ruffled hair and engorged lips, your lack of lip gloss. You and your mom are at the counter, backs to the general assembly as you undoubtedly discuss you and me. Us.

That sounds good.

*

In the past, Christmas break used to be my favorite school vacation. Aside from being the longest, it always involved snow, and that meant midnight walks and doughnuts with Mom. This year, though, in addition to being bogged down with homework, there's you. Isn't there always?

You left. _Something_ came up, you said, something happened, and you had to leave. I should be jubilant at the thought of you not being here, especially after the yelling match we had yesterday. But there's a funny, empty feeling in my tummy, like a reservoir devoid of water. I should want you gone, but I'm weak, and I miss you instead.

At least the diner is safe now. I don't have to worry about bumping into you, all the jerky motions and strained lack of eye contact it entails. The only consolation I have is the ability to get coffee in peace.

It's snowing outside, coming down pretty hard. I'm grateful that I don't have to wear saddle shoes today, thankful that I can wear my snow boots and down coat. I step into the diner and start brushing all the snow off with my gloves. I know I can't get every little flake off, so I just leave it and stuff the gloves—black, with snowflakes, Mom's choice—back into my commodious pockets. Out of habit, I scan the diner for you, but you're not there. I'd thought as much, and I sit on the last empty barstool. Hopefully, one will open up before Mom gets here, or the person next to me will be feeling very unlucky.

Nervously, I sweep the diner one more time with my eyes, and I see you. At first, I think I'm hallucinating, but I didn't have that much coffee at home. Involuntarily, my mouth opens, wanting to say something, anything, but I make it shut again. I can't stay here, with you. I wasn't prepared for this. Abruptly, I stand up.

"Rory!" you call.

My own name sends tremors through me. The whole diner has stopped talking and is focused on me, I'm sure, as I revel in the sounds, the alternating consonants and vowels, the melody you make it into. I want to say your name, but I remember where we are. Shutting my mouth tightly to prevent any sounds from escaping, I fish in my disproportionately large pockets for my gloves and prepare to leave.

Before I can even make it to the door, though, you're right by me. Now everyone really is looking at me—at us—and my cheeks redden. You voice is soft when you say, "Talk to me." I know the softness is due to all the people, but I let myself fantasize for a moment, pretending it's out of tenderness.

Yesterday comes hurtling back at me, and I say, "You were leaving!" sounding terribly upset. The sounds are hissed and almost venomous, and I want to cringe. You don't deserve this.

Without a nuance of change in your calm exterior, you say, "Was." Your eyes flicker around the diner for a moment, and then you tell me, "Come on." You put your hand on my elbow and I feel something white-hot and dangerous course through me, flushing through my body and pooling like mercury in my belly. 

"I'm meeting my mom!" I manage to utter as you enclose us in the storeroom. I struggle to make the words sound harsh and emphatic, but your hand is still on my elbow. As much as I hate being the girly-girl, my insides are mush.

"She'll know what happened the second she walks in the door," you reason, removing you hand. A peculiar coolness spreads, slowly fanning out from my elbow. I gently clasp my lips together, trying to keep the mercury in my stomach. "Are you mad at me?"

It disappears anyway with the space between us. "You were leaving!" I almost shout, angry and confused about the hot and cold.

"Did you want me to leave?" 

Your face, as always, betrays no emotion. How can you do that? How can you seem to have no attachment to anything? I feel the anger flutter across my face. I should lie. I should be cruel and say that yes, I did want you to leave and never come back. That's not the truth, though, and I'm not a good liar. "No!" I finally exclaim. Your mouth opens, and I slip in, "But you can't do that to me!"

You look surprised. _Ha_, I think, _some semblance of feelings_. "What?" you say incredulously.

"Say one thing and do another."

"_I_ can't do that to _you_?" you ask in disbelief. "Rory—"

"No, you can't!" I yell before you can tell me that I've done the same thing. Most times, yes, I'm romantically unaware, but even I can see that I've jerked you around, twisted you and coiled you until you were bitter and confused, loving me and hating me. "I just want to know, one way or the other." I know you won't leave now. Not after you stayed even in light of our fight. But what I want to know, what I need to know, is if you're in love with me, or if I'm just some schoolgirl, some challenge, some innocent you want to seduce.

"About what?" you ask, your voice tired and strained. I hate it that I made you sound like that.

"Anything! Are you leaving or aren't you?" I know the answer, but it's the simplest question. I can't bear to ask the others yet.

"No," says you, sullenly, sounding rather upset.

"Well then, what came up?" I ask. I genuinely wonder what could be so important yet so negligible.

"Oh, Christ, Rory, I made that up!" The words reverberate in the storeroom, all the frustration pinging back and forth in my ears. My eyebrows come together, displaying my confusion for you to see clearly.

"What? Why?"

"I had to get out of this town." Your voice is sharp, short.

"Well, you still can," I snap, disturbed that you made up an excuse to get away from me. Am I that repulsive? Have I really let my indecisiveness affect someone else to the point of running all that way just to escape me? Am I truly destined to end up like Lorelai, torturing men to the point of no return?

"I wanted to see if you'd care." Shocked, my eyes widen briefly, but I calm down, hoping you didn't see that. Never did I expect to hear you say that. I feel tempted to look outside, see if Kirk has a car or if Taylor bought an Eminem CD. Or a CD for that matter.

"Well, I did," I say, folding my arms. There's a quietus, and I scrutinize the storeroom. In all our years of eating at Luke's, I've never been in here. I've never seen so much food and so many condiments in one location. I imagine that if Mom and I were permitted an entire night in here, someone would have to roll us out in the morning. While the silence stretches, I start counting. Luke has thirty cans of coffee that I can see.

"Good," you finally say, breaking the stillness.

  
"Isn't it?" I mutter. You don't say anything. I twist my head to look at you, staring for a moment. Then, gathering all the courage I have, I ask, "Then… why did you stay?"

I don't know if I want to hear the answer to this. I don't know if it will be the answer I want. I don't know what answer I want. All I know is that it's out there, and there's no taking it back. You've heard it, you're considering it, and now I can't just act like I didn't say it.

It's a little embarrassing, really, feeling like I have to beg for your affection. I feel, suddenly, like Dean must have, fishing—practically using a radar device—to gather encouragement. I'm pretty sure of why you stayed, but as the quiet lengthens, I'm not so certain. What if you stayed for an entirely different reason? What if you're standing there, piecing together how to let me down easy? Would you let me down easy?

Your face keeps changing. I've never seen you like this, ever. You seem so…vulnerable. That's never a word I thought I'd associate with you. All of a sudden, you look like a small boy, abandoned and alone, and I wonder what you're thinking about. It's not me, I'm almost certain. I want to crawl inside you, nestle in your stomach, feel the tugs and aches and pains, try to take the sting away.

As the time continues to lengthen, I become increasingly concerned. Maybe this question was a little more complicated than I intended it to be. What if I've sent you into a reminiscent reverie that you never want to have? "Jess?" I ask. My voice sounds like a small girl's, high like a tinkling bell.

"I'm not good at this," you say. Your voice is hoarse and forced. 

Unsure of protocol in this situation, I gently pull you towards me. "What were you thinking about?" I murmur. I feel awful about triggering this, but what am I to do? How do I apologize?

For a long time, you turn your head tediously back and forth. "I'm sorry," you eventually say, breaking the delicate silence.

__

"That's what I wanted to say" flashes through my mind, and I subconsciously pinch your arm with my hand. I don't know why you're apologizing, exactly, but I'm certainly sorry. "Me too," I say. Taking a deep breath, I let out the last half of the amends. "I didn't want to hurt you." I really didn't. I never wanted to hurt you or Dean or my mother, but somehow, I always manage to. I never wrote to you, I never paid attention to Dean, and my mother…this thing, this amorphous quasi-relationship thing I have going with you is killing her. When I was smaller, I always marveled at older people's love lives and promised myself that mine would never be the same. It is though; it's as convoluted and twisted as my mother's, and I'm scared, because I don't know how it got there and I don't know how to fix it.

You're far away again, thinking. I wet my lips and watch you, wondering what you'll say next. I'm always wondering about you. "I know," is all you say.

"Jess?" I ask in the little-girl voice.

"Yeah?"

I can't believe I'm about to do this. It won't remedy anything, but I have to ask, have to get it out into the open. It needs to be exposed, good or bad, because I'm sick of being a cliché. "Did you…not go…because of me?" I wonder, still with that teeny voice. I wish I sounded stronger, more sure of myself, but I can't.

"Why else would I stay here?" you ask dryly.

"Right." I purse my lips, processing this information. I've gotten this far, and Rory Gilmore is not a quitter. "Jess?"

"Yes, Rory?" You look at me again, with those deep eyes. I feel pressured, so I look slightly away.

"Do you want to be with me?" _Oh dear God_. I can't believe I've just said that. My mouth is dry, full of thick air.

You aren't saying anything. This is definitely not good. All you're doing is staring at me with the funniest expression on your face. The lower left corner of your mouth twitches a little bit, but still, no answer. Hoping against hope, I draw my lower lip under my teeth. Finally, I just nod and start walking. I need to get out of this storeroom; it's suffocating me. I must leave, go home, make some strong coffee and just lay down and cry. 

I don't make it to the door, though, because you take hold of my forearm and wrench me backwards. I hit you hard, unable to brace myself for the shock. Swiftly, you move your hand from my arm to the small of my back and weave the other roughly in my hair and press your lips firmly against mine.

The kiss is passionate and dangerous. I feel like every single emotion that you've put into you and me is pouring through your lips and into my mouth. Gathering myself, I reciprocate and give myself over to the kiss. There's a wonderful familiarity to this kiss, having already occurred three times. But this one is different, like you're finally giving me the last piece of a puzzle. That thought triggers something indistinct in me, and I can't suppress the humiliating whimper that weasels out of the back of my throat. I'm surprised when you back me against the wall, pushing against me, fitting our hips together. 

Just when I feel on the brink of irrationality, Luke's voice pulls us apart like opposite poles of magnets. "Ah, geez!" We separate. "You might wanna…take that upstairs." Luke refuses to look at us, and I know my face is flaming.

"Wow, Uncle Luke," you say calmly. "Should you really be advocating this?" How can you be so placid? I'm shaking from that kiss.

"Shut up. Ah, Rory, your mom's waiting…driving me insane…so, you know…soon…whenever you can," Luke sputters.

"Okay." I won't meet Luke's eyes. He's like my father, and I'm a little ashamed to have him catch me in this position.

"All right." Luke leaves with a bottle.

You and I just gaze at each other. My blush dies down and I stop trembling. I feel my lips curve a little as I think about what just transpired. "Was that a 'yes'?" I ask, stuffing a giggle down.

"Take it how you want," you say nonchalantly. Okay, then, I'll take it as a yes.

"My mom," I remind myself out loud, grinning like a moron.

"Right."

"But I'll see you later, right?" I ask hopefully. It sounds so…well, nice.

"Yeah." And you're smirking again.

"Good." I kiss you very gingerly on the lips, not wanting the moment combust like the last time. I let myself back out into the diner, not looking back lest I meet your eyes. My mother is on my old barstool, and the diner is still packed. She sees me and turns to the man sitting next to her. I see an odd combination of gestures and facial expressions, and the man goes over to sit by Kirk. I slide onto a barstool weakly.

"So, diner demimonde, details."

"Must you come up with these names?" I ask my mother.

"It makes it more fun." My mother nods towards the storeroom door, where I notice you slipping in. "So. What happened?"

"I…we…"

"Well, you've obviously been kissed," Mom says, straightening my hair. "I'm assuming Jess is the culprit."

"Oh…yeah."

"Wow…you're out of it," Mom says. "Coffee?"

__

Coffee? "Oh, yeah, sure. Coffee," I state dumbly. I can't think.

Mom frowns a little. I know she's worried, but that's the thing: she shouldn't be. She's worried because I'm not being her. She thinks I am, but I'm not; I've admitted many a thing to myself in the last ten minutes, things that she can't seem to come clean with to herself. The kiss, you, the storeroom, they all mean that I'm not going to turn out like her. Stealthily, I peer at you from behind a thin curtain of hair, looking at you as you move, recalling how you felt. I smile to myself.

A/N: _Dedicated to **Kate** because she rocks._


End file.
